


Rick and the No Good, Very Bad Grammys

by Fox_Salz



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 01:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10061651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_Salz/pseuds/Fox_Salz
Summary: Rick is not happy with the winner of best album at the Grammys.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynsaneinthemembrane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynsaneinthemembrane/gifts).



> This is what I'm contributing to the fandom today. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ We have a lot of fun on our chat.

“Cheating bastards!” Rick cursed, jumping to his feet.

 

Stan looked over at him, preparing for the other man’s tirade. He should have known Rick would be steamed if Beyoncé didn’t win at the Grammys; of course he actually hadn’t expected this scenario. She was a powerhouse after all, and her songs were catchy he had to admit. _Rocket_ had been stuck in his head for a week now since Rick wouldn’t stop singing it.

 

“I-I-I can’t believe this shit! Who the fuck even knew Adele put out an album last year?”

 

“I don’t even know who she is.”

 

“She did _Rolling In the Deep_ ,” Rick explained, glaring at the screen where some white woman was being handed an award.

 

“Doesn't ring a bell. She the chick who set the rain on fire?”

 

Rick turned to Stan, eyebrow quirked.

 

“H-how do you know that stupid ass on but not the one she’s famous for?” Stan shrugged.

 

Suddenly there were several dings in rapid succession. Rick dug into his pocket, pulling out a phone Stan recognized as his multidimensional cell. He watched as Rick’s face scrunched up.

 

“That Miami fuck.”

 

Rolling his eyes Stan asked, “What did Miami Rick do now?”

 

Rick shoved the phone in his face. Stan moved his hand back a fraction so he could actually read it.

 

“‘Hey motherfuckers’.”

 

“U-u-use the right inflictions or don’t, don’t read it out loud at all.”

 

“ _Fine_. ‘Hey motherfuckers! Guess who was at the Grammy’s to see Beyoncé win? One of the greatest moments of my life!’”

 

Attached was a photo of Miami Rick grinning wide, behind him the stage where Beyoncé was holding that golden statue. Miami Stan was off to the side, rolling his eyes affectionately at his Rick.

 

“Huh, so he’s in a timeline where Beyoncé won. Good fer him.”

 

“‘ _Good for him_ ’? H-h-hell no! That, _urp_ , asshole is shoving his better timeline into my face! Smug bastard. And look at these others!”

 

Stan sighed but allowed his boyfriend to rattle on about the other Ricks. Apparently most of those who were in a Beyoncé-victory dimension were shoving it in the others’ faces, because of course they would. They were Ricks, after all.

 

“Even that John Wayne, tobacco chewing, tin can shooting fuck has a-a-ah winning Beyoncé.”

 

“You mean that cowboy Rick? The one with the hat who plays acoustic guitar? He’s pretty attractive.” Rick gave him a sour look. “What?”

 

“ _As I was saying_ , this is ridiculous. N-none of th- _urp_ -ese other chumps deserve to be in the better timeline. They don’t appreciate her as much as me.”

 

Stan eyed the shirt Rick was wearing—a giant image of Beyoncé’s winking face. Definitely proof of his admiration for the singer. Stan made a mental note to ask other versions of himself to see how many Ricks were decked out similarly. He should probably keep that from his Rick, though.

 

“Listen, babe, I know you’re mad that Beyoncé lost to the chick who’s pieces are falling apart and burning—”

 

“Okay, you’re fucking with me.”

 

The phone dinged again and Rick examined whatever message he got. Stan watched the fury spread across his face.

 

“What—”

 

“ _Doofus Rick_ ,” he explained, tapping away furiously on the small screen. “Th-that shit eating son of a bitch just invited everyone whose Beyoncé lost to wa- _urp_ -tch her win in his dimension. Can you believe this guy?”

 

Stan opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly Rick’s cell rang and filled the room with _Video Phone_. He petulantly answered, putting the speaker on. Beyoncé’s dulcet tones were replaced by Doofus Rick.

 

“Hi there, B-218!”

 

“Doofus.”

 

“I-i-it’s J19-Zeta-7, actually. I just wanted to invite you to my dimension. I understand how awful it must have been to see Beyoncé lose, she really deserved that Grammy!”

 

“ _I know_.”

 

“But I recorded her win! We could make a big day of it, invite some other Ricks and their Stans, and experience that wonderful moment together. I have plenty of popcorn, and my Stan is already putting homemade cookies in the oven.”

 

“Why th-the fuck would I want to put myself in the same room as you and a bunch of other assholes to watch what should have happened in my dimension? Even I’m not that much of a masochist.”

 

“Aww, geez, B-218, I hope I didn’t offend you. I-I just wanted to spread some joy. Everyone here is so happy for Beyoncé. She even got a congratulatory tweet from president Hilary—”

 

Rick hung up and shoved the phone back in his pocket.

 

“That’s it. L- _urp_ -ee, we need to find one of the dimensions where Beyoncé rightfully won and kill those versions of us, then take their places. For Beyoncé I’ll put up with Florida.”

 

“ _No_.”

 

“‘No’? What the hell do you mean, ‘no’?”

 

“I mean, I’m not leaving my family and neither are you.” Rick rolled his eyes, crossing his arms like a child.

 

“Fine, we’ll kill all of them.”

 

“Rick, sit your ass down,” Stan said, grabbing the end of his lab coat and pulling him back onto the couch. “We’re not taking over another Rick and Stan’s life. I’m too old for that shit.”

 

Rick was pouting at this point; Stan resisted the urge to say anything, not wanting to further his ire. Though it was a little funny. Alright, a lot.

 

Rolling his eyes Stan leveled with him, “How about we just mess with the other Ricks? I don’t know, spray paint all the windows in the Council of Ricks, pee in Miami Rick’s fountain. Oh, let’s steal some Rick’s tv. Doesn’t that writer one own a huge flat screen?”

 

Rick had perked up as Stan listed felonies, frown replaced by an exuberant grin.

 

“Th-that’s perfect, Lee! We’ll hit all those bastards in the brighter timelines.”

 

Stan smiled to himself as Rick planned who’d they hit. He even took his phone back out to create a soundtrack for their evening—Beyoncé filled, of course.

 

“Don’t forget Doofus Rick’s dimension, babe. Cookies sound good.”


End file.
